Mrs Columbo
by Sophia Hawkins
Summary: Columbo always tells people about his wife while he's out on a case, but how much of what he tells them about Mrs. Columbo is actually real? Chapter 3 is now up.
1. Chapter 1

Mrs. Columbo

A/N: This story is a bunch of little ideas of what the real home life between Columbo and his wife might be like. While Columbo and his wife had no official first names on the show, I decided to go with the flow of the common belief that the name 'Frank' is on Columbo's police badge, and taking a cue from Peter Falk's Columbo appearance at Frank Sinatra's roast, for the story his wife's name is Rose. Hope everybody enjoys!

"I don't care if you _do_ get extra credits for taking this course, I still think it's ridiculous."

"Oh come on, Frank, be a good sport."

"I'm always a good sport; look, I know we each have our own individual interests, that's what keeps us unique, like you like swimming, I like fishing, you like bowling, I like shooting pool, that's why we've always worked so well together because we do have different hobbies…but this is _just_ ridiculous."

"Hold still, don't squirm."

"I mean," Columbo said as he shifted in his chair as he felt his wife parting through his hair with her oh so delicate and yet oh so strong hands, "Feeling a person's head for lumps, to determine criminality, to say nothing of what sort of personality a person has, that's very unusual."

"Oh come on, Lieutenant Columbo, isn't that how cops used to look for crooks?"

"Yes, it was," Columbo answered, flinching slightly as he felt his wife's fingers dig against his scalp checking for lumps, "One of them anyway. There was this other method. Before they started taking fingerprints, this guy came up with the idea of measuring criminals. He figured…"

"Hold still."

"Sorry." Columbo tried holding still but he stuck his arm out and used it to gesture and emphasize as he talked, "He figured while it's very common for several guys to be the same height, same weight, same build, if you were to measure people by their neck, their wrist, their little finger, all those sorts of measurements, you'd never find two who had the exact same measurements. It was very effective for a while…until the one day when it wasn't, had a case, guy arrested for escaping a jail he'd never been to, the original guy they'd arrested was still in lockup, and they both had the exact same measurements…isn't that a kick?"

"Very, keep your head still."

"Bertillon, that was the guy's name that thought it up, that's what they called it too, the Bertillon system…it was French, you know, the guy was French, and he started his system in the French police department. Once they found out two guys could have the same measurements, _then_ they switched to collecting fingerprints to ID criminals. So then some of the criminals started looking for ways to change their fingerprints, impossible you know, but they sure tried. You know, everybody remembers John Dillinger because he used acid to try and burn off his fingerprints…but you know there was this one guy who had his fingers taped to his chest for weeks to let his chest skin grow over his fingers instead? So when he got arrested, they printed him and all they got was 10 perfectly smooth, unmarked, unidentifiable prints. Makes you wonder why his idea never caught on, it was almost completely foolproof, except he still got arrested and identified, maybe that's why."

His wife smacked his hand away that had subconsciously reached up to scratch the side of his head.

"So what do you deduce, Mrs. Columbo?" he asked.

"You must have zero personality," his wife concluded, "You don't have any lumps to feel through, you have a perfectly smooth head under all your hair."

"No kidding," Columbo said as he shifted in his chair, "Maybe it's only the criminals that have lumps on their heads. So now what're you going to do?"

"Oh, I'll figure something out for my report for my phrenology class at the night school, don't worry about that," she assured him.

He smiled at her as he asked, "You going to find another test subject to volunteer for the job?"

"Yeah, maybe my brother the next time he comes for dinner."

"I think that'd be a much better choice," Columbo nodded as he stood up from the chair, "But I have a funny feeling his head's going to be perfectly smooth too. Your brother never so much as let a parking meter expire, you won't find any criminal lumps in this family…but then again, I don't know you'll be able to find many willing volunteers _outside_ of the family either who are going to let you feel their heads for lumps to determine if they're crooks or not."

He had just started to turn around, but he turned back to her and smiled at her and said, "Mrs. Columbo, you certainly are an amazing woman."

"Oh Pshaw," she waved him off, "You always say that."

"Because you always are," he replied, "You were amazing when we first started going out, you were even more amazing when we got married, and you're even more amazing than that now. I don't know how you do it, but the way I see it, there never was a guy in this world luckier than I am. If there was a more perfect wife in the world, I wouldn't want to know her."

Mrs. Columbo just tried to keep from giggling, but he was able to spot a minor blush in her cheeks. The truth of the matter was she was a very amazing woman, in so many ways nobody else would ever know about. And in that way too, he felt like the luckiest man alive, that what made the Mrs. so special was not something he shared with the rest of the world, like it was specifically preserved and tucked away for him to witness.

"You know," he said sheepishly as he continued to gaze at his wife, "When I'm on the job and I'm talking to people, I always seem to start talking about you, I tell people about you…I know I really shouldn't, because of safety reasons, but I just can't help it, you're too good _not_ to talk about. The only thing of it is, I get the feeling they don't believe me."

She just laughed and patted his cheek and told him, "That's alright, Frank. Now come on, the lasagna should be ready."

Oh and her cooking was superb, always great, even when they first got married, and yet he would swear it had somehow gotten _better_ over the years, and he never even thought that was possible. Columbo shook his head helplessly, he just couldn't figure out how people could _not_ believe everything he said about his wife, everything about her was too incredible to just be made up. But of course, for all the things he unintentionally found himself mentioning while on a case, there were just as many things about Mrs. Columbo that he knew _not_ to disclose to anyone else, certain things he just _knew_ were better left unknown to anyone else.


	2. Chapter 2

Columbo pushed the front door open and called out, "Sweetheart, I'm home."

Mrs. Columbo came out of the kitchen wearing her cooking apron. "Dinner will be ready soon."

"Oh, terrific…after the day I've had…" Columbo took off his raincoat, hung it on a peg on the wall, managed to get past the dining room, into the living room and promptly collapsed in an easy chair, "Food sounds good."

His wife came up behind him and stroked a soft hand over the top of his head, "Poor baby," she crooned, and kissed him, "Bad day?"

"Bad case," Columbo answered, "I don't wanna bore you with the details…every cop always gets a case that just drains him…I've already had a few, you know…but this sure feels like another one coming on. I'm almost positive who the killer is," he curled his fingers on one hand into a fist, "I just don't have any way to prove it yet," and the fist uncurled, "He's smart…he's relying on that."

"He thinks he knows more than you do?" she asked him.

"He's right," Columbo told her as he kicked his feet up on an ottoman set in front of his chair and leaned back and closed his eyes for a minute, "_He_ knows how he committed the murder, I haven't got it figured out yet." He brought one hand up and rubbed directly above his eye.

"You want a drink?" Mrs. Columbo asked.

"Hmm," he hummed deep in his throat, "That _does_ sound good, sounds better than a cigar in fact."

"You _have_ had a rough day," she said to him as she headed into the kitchen.

"Oh, you don't know the half of it," Columbo opened his eyes.

A couple minutes later, she returned to the dining room with a cold drink in her hand. Columbo graciously accepted the glass and took a sip. "Ooh, that's just right, you always know how to get a drink _just_ right, any kind, don't matter, I don't have that kind of luck, I try mixing drinks…ehh, that's why I leave that to you when we have company over. You know what you're doing."

"Frank," his wife sat down across from him on the couch and crossed one leg over the other and looked at him point blank, "_What_ is the matter?"

He held his drink in one hand and helplessly tried gesturing with his free hand but nothing was coming across, he said simply, "It's just this case…usually by now I've got some idea of what happened, what's _not_ right, how it happened…this time I'm stuck…if I can't figure it out, and this guy gets away, well that's just going to be that, I can't let that happen."

"It'll come to you," she assured him, "It always does. Lord knows you've had some tough ones over the years."

Columbo slowly nodded, "Yeah, I guess that's true. Boy there have been times though, it was pretty obvious right away, there's always something up front that sticks out, that doesn't make sense…the little things that keep so I can't sleep at night…here, the little thing is there _is_ no little thing."

Mrs. Columbo stood up and went over to the easy chair and kissed him on top of his head and told him, "You'll get it, now come on, dinner's ready."

Columbo got up from his chair and seated himself at the dining room table where the chairs had already been pulled out and the table set. His wife disappeared into the kitchen for a moment before bringing out the main course on a platter. Columbo's eyes perked up.

"Oh! Leg of lamb roast, oh boy you sure know how to go all out for a guy," he beamed as he picked up a knife and fork.

Mrs. Columbo went back into the kitchen to bring out a chilled bottle of wine for the two of them. It was then that Columbo noticed a couple things: one, the house was unusually quiet for dinnertime, and two, only two places had been set at the table.

"Hey, where're the kids?" he asked.

"At a sleepover tonight, remember?" Mrs. Columbo said as she returned into the dining room.

"Oh that's right, they _were_ staying over tonight, weren't they?" Columbo asked, "I don't know _where_ my head is today. Gee, one of these days I'm going to come home and they're going to already be grown up and out of the house. And _then_ where'll we be?"

"Well," she said as she opened the bottle and poured them each a glass, "The way I see it, we have two options for when that happens, either one, we could another kid, or two…"

"How about if we just get a dog?" Columbo asked.

"A dog?" she repeated as she looked at him.

"Yeah you know, those animals that walk on all fours and bark," Columbo said, "I hear having a dog around the house is terrific, you're never alone, there's always somebody excited to see you, and you can get a good guard dog so you never have to worry about anybody trying to break into the place."

"Oh Frank," his wife laughed, "Nobody's tried breaking into this house since we bought the place, we don't have anything anybody wants."

"Oh I don't know about that," Columbo replied, "Take that car out there."

"I wish somebody would," she told him sarcastically.

"Hey now," he raised his hand to get her attention, "That's a great car, that's a French car, you don't see many like that anymore."

"With good reason I'm sure," she responded as she sat down across from him at the table.

"You never know," Columbo said to her, smiling, "Get an experienced car thief who knows his cars, that could be a pretty tempting target."

"We can only hope," she remarked.

Columbo ignored his wife's teasing, "I don't know, it might be a good idea to get a dog, we might not _be_ safer with one but maybe I'd _feel_ safer having one around the house for when I'm not here, and it's just you and the kids. You know, that's one thing I manage to do right. Sometimes I can slip and tell people about you, but I _never_ mention the kids, I make sure of that. As far as anybody who doesn't know us is concerned, we don't even _have_ kids."

His wife laughed and told him, "Frank, if anybody were dumb enough to try breaking into _this_ house," she pointed to herself, "_I_ can take care of them."

"Oh I know _you_ can, but I figured it'd be better if we let a _dog_ do it instead," Columbo said, "If the _dog_ bites an intruder, that's not so unusual. Ah well…maybe one day when the kids are a little older…"

* * *

Mrs. Columbo never cooked a bad meal but the leg of lamb tonight was better than he could remember any other she'd ever cooked. By the time dinner was over, Columbo found himself already feeling refreshed and renewed, and an idea came to him.

"You know, Rose," he said as he helped his wife clear the table, "There may be a way you can help me with this case."

"Oh really?" she asked, surprised, "How?"

"Well, are you still taking that speed reading course at the night school?" he asked.

She nodded as she put the dishes in the sink, "We just read through War and Peace in one week."

"Oh gee, that's fantastic," Columbo said, "I tried reading it once…come to think of it, I don't know if I ever finished it…oh well…"

"What's that got to do with your case?" she asked.

"Well you see," he told her, "The guy I think is good for it, he's a mystery writer, he's written 27 murder mysteries, you can tell he doesn't have much of an outside life, no real family, no kids, anyway...and he's given his own first editions to me to read through…now, part of me is figuring there can't _possibly_ be anything in them connected to the murder he's committed, because that would be too obvious. But 27 books…on the other hand he's probably figuring I'll give up before I get too far into them, so if there _is_ a connection, I won't find it."

His wife nodded, "That's probably what most people would do."

"Well anyway," Columbo said, "I'm figuring maybe you could take half and I could take the other half, and that way I'll _know_ half of them because I read through them myself, and maybe you could fill me in on the other half so I can at least _sound_ like I read them if he asks…and I figure with you learning how to speed read, you could probably get through your half a lot quicker than I could get through mine."

"Sure," she replied as she put the stopper in the sink to fill it up, "Sounds like fun."

"Oh I'm glad to hear that," he said, "You see, I got them out in the car…I was going to bring them in after dinner and get started on them."

"Sure," Mrs. Columbo told him as she started washing the dishes, "If it'll help you with your case, I'd be thrilled to do it."

"Oh that would help me out a lot," Columbo said, "Between you and me, I think it messes with these people when it seems I can get something done much faster than they'd think I could."

"That's part of being a good cop, Frank," she told him, "Being able to psyche people out."

"Boy I know that's true," he said as he picked up a dish towel, "You'd be surprised the things people will do, and that they'll say, when they think you're not too bright. It never ceases to amaze me, and I've seen a lot of it in this line of work."


	3. Chapter 3

All day long Columbo would work a homicide investigation, and all night he would wile away the hours sitting in a chair in the living room, reading through the murder mystery novels given to him by his latest key suspect. 27 murder mysteries, all published in less than 30 years, it blew his mind how it was even possible. Especially since reading through them in itself was no easy task. More and more often he wound up falling asleep in his chair reading. More than once he'd heard his wife calling him to bed, and he'd told her 'Just as soon as I finish this chapter', but somewhere between the end of that chapter and the start of another one, he usually wound up sound asleep where he sat.

Almost two weeks, that was how long he'd been doing this so far. Sheesh, _he_ should've signed up for a speed reading course. The latest book he'd been reading was about 500 pages long, and in spite of the fact that this was for work, that the only reason he was doing this was to look for some little clue that might lead him to the smoking gun in this murder case, he had to admit it was a very engrossing book. So much so that once again he had fallen asleep reading it, and was currently dreaming that he was reading further into it. It was a very unusual thing how a dream could feel so real, and yet you could _know_ you were dreaming, and somehow he knew he was, and somehow he also knew that while he _was_ only dreaming, he _was_ somehow in his sleep, reading actual lines from an actual upcoming chapter in the book. Boy, if he could figure out a way to do this more often…

"Frank!"

"Huh? What?" Columbo opened his eyes and realized he was slumped over in his chair again with a very heavy hardback on his lap, and his wife was standing before him dressed in her night gown and bathrobe.

"Oh, oh, it's you!" he said in half-asleep surprise as he closed the book and put it on the small inn table by his chair. "Rose, you wouldn't believe the dream I just had…"

It was then that Columbo also realized that his wife wasn't alone, there were two other people with her, in fact, one on either side of her.

"The kids wanted to say goodnight, Frank," she told him.

"Oh yeah," Columbo rubbed one eye and leaned over to kiss each of his kids goodnight. "Goodnight."

"Tell us a story, Daddy," his daughter said.

"Yeah, Dad," his son added, "Tell us a story."

"Oh…okay," he said, trying to think of one that they hadn't already heard 10 times. His concentration was thrown a bit off balance by his daughter climbing up into his lap, followed immediately by his son who commandeered the remaining side of his lap. At the rate these two were growing, he was going to need a bigger lap to keep them both on.

"What're you reading, Daddy?" his daughter asked as she reached for the book he'd discarded.

"Uh, that," he said as he grabbed it and put it back on the table, "That's for Daddy's work."

"Read it to us, Dad," his son said.

"Oh," he said, "No, that book's like the roller coaster at the amusement park." He held his arm out about four and a half feet up in the air and told them, "When you're _this_ tall, then you can read it."

His kids just laughed at their dad's silliness.

"Tell us a story, Dad," his daughter said.

"Okay," he told them, "I _think_ I can think of one."

That one even got a laugh out of Mrs. Columbo.

"Let's see," Columbo said as he tried gesturing with his hands to help tell the story, "Once upon a time there was this great big green giant, who lived in a valley, and he…"

"_Frank_," Mrs. Columbo chided.

"Oh they heard that one already? Okay," he tried again, "Once upon a time there was this policeman."

"Like you, Dad?" his daughter asked.

"Well, kind of," he answered, "And he worked a very long shift catching bad guys and putting them in jail, and came home to get some sleep…he didn't make any noise coming in, he didn't turn on any lights, because he knew his family was already in bed asleep. So he opened the front door, and took three steps in, and fell flat on his face, because he had _tripped_, over his wife's bowling ball." He saw his wife roll her eyes all the while his children giggled and shrieked.

"Well he didn't hear anybody get up from the noise," he continued, "So he decided to forget about it for the night and just go to bed, but first, he decided to stop in to the kitchen for a drink of water. And as soon as he pushed the kitchen door open and walked in, WHAM, his mother-in-law hit him on the head with a rolling pin, because she thought he was a thief."

His two kids were falling over each other laughing in hysterics at that part, and it got a little smile from him to watch them enjoy the story so much.

"Because you know that song, 'Not last night but the night before, 24 robbers came knocking at my door'."

The kids joined in with him and helped him finish, "As I ran out, they ran in and I hit them in the head with a rolling pin!"

"It seems to me," Columbo told his children, "All Ali Baba needed was a couple of women in his family with a couple of rolling pins, and they wouldn't have had to boil the 40 thieves in oil."

They continued to squeal and shriek hysterically. His wife just stood back with her hands on her hips and a twisted smile on her face as she fought hard not to laugh. Then she came up to his chair and told the kids, "Alright you two, time for bed."

Columbo exchanged a couple more greetings of 'goodnight' with his kids before they climbed down from his lap and ran off towards the stairs and up to their room.

"I can't believe you're still going on about that, Frank," she said to him.

He raised one finger and waved it at her mischievously and said to her, "I should've put it together back then, _that's_ why you're not worried about anyone breaking in here, because if your bowling ball doesn't take care of the problem, your mother would whenever she stays for the night."

"Oh come on, Frank, she didn't hit you that hard," she said dismissively.

"Oh no?" Columbo asked, "How hard _do_ you have to hit somebody to _break_ a rolling pin? After that night, I _should've_ been left with a lump on my head, you know?

Mrs. Columbo seated herself on the arm of his chair and ran her fingers through his hair and asked him, "Where _did_ she hit you?"

He pointed to a specific spot on his head and told her, "Right here."

She tried to suppress a laugh as she crooned, "Poor baby," and kissed him on the same spot.

"Hey, when're you coming to bed?" she asked him clear out of nowhere.

"Well I tell you," he said to her, "I was having this amazing dream when you woke me up. I'd been reading that book, and I dreamt I was reading it, and I'll just bet you if I flip ahead through the pages, I could _find_ the part I was reading in the dream, and it would all match."

"Oh that reminds me," Mrs. Columbo said to him, "I got some of those done that you gave me to read through."

"That's good," he said as she got up, "I've got a few finished too…at this rate I figure a couple more weeks and I'll have them all read through." He stood up and collected the ones he'd read and continued, "But I gotta tell you, so far I haven't been able to find _anything_ that could be used to tie in to the murder I think this guy committed. We can rule out anything bloody, because of the obvious there was no sign of a struggle and no _evident_ sign of foul play; nobody at the department can figure it out, the guy was found in a house, it was a nice day, the windows were open, everything seemed normal. The coroner said something about it could be some kind of poison, he don't know what kind yet, it doesn't look like something he's seen before; but this guy sure seems to know enough about poisons, just about every book of his I've read so far has some kind mentioned in it. And why not? Poison is a very open field, there are so many kinds, so many ways to use them, it just…"

While he was talking, he hadn't paid much attention to his wife leaving the room, but he _did_ notice when she returned with a tall stack of books in her hands and under her chin.

"Oh, very funny," he said humorously as she set them down on the table, "In the last couple weeks I think I managed to get through five of them, how many did you get done?"

"Ten," Mrs. Columbo answered.

Columbo shook his head helplessly and told her, "I should've signed up for that speed reading class when you took it, maybe between the two of us we'd be done already."

Mrs. Columbo took a piece of paper out of the top book and gave it to him and told him, "Here are some notes I took about each one I read, incase this guy would ask you about them. I also wrote down anything I thought might be connected to the murder. I hope it helps."

"Oh with you getting through the books this fast, that helps me a great deal," Columbo told her, "I really appreciate your help."

"What if there _isn't_ any connection in them though?" she asked.

"Even if there isn't, all the same I think it's going to throw this guy off if he thinks I managed to read through his whole collection, that it took him nearly three decades to write and publish, in just under a month. You know some of these writers are very critical kinds of people, they don't respond well to something like that. I've done a few cases where the main suspect was a mystery writer, most of them are well established, they've got a lot of titles to their names. Some of them don't care how fast you can get through their books, sometimes it's because there _is_ no connection to them and how they committed their own murder, but sometimes it bothers them. I'm not exactly sure why, but sometimes it really eats at them to think, that a lowly police lieutenant, could get through all their critically acclaimed murder mysteries in just a matter of a few weeks. This guy in particular, I could see it bothering him very much, all of his books are very long, and somewhat drawn out, I think a lot of people would give up on them long before actually finishing one, let alone the whole collection."

"That's because he never knew a pair like us," his wife responded proudly.

Columbo nodded, "And I'm for keeping it that way. But I don't think I'll take _these_ back until we get the rest of them read, you know, he gave them to me all at once, I think it'll be very fitting to return them the same way, _all_ at once."

* * *

"Frank…Frank!"

Columbo felt somebody hitting him, and simultaneously felt like he was on a trampoline going up and down, up and down. He opened his eyes and realized he wife was trying to shake him awake, but in the process was just making him bounce against the mattress. It was still dark, just the little reading light on the headboard was shining down on them. He flipped over and saw his wife was still awake reading and had the book in one hand and was trying to wake him up with the other.

"What is it, Rose?" he asked, "What's the matter?"

"How did you say this guy killed his victim?"

"Well that's just it, we're not quite sure," Columbo answered as he sat up, "We got the preliminary autopsy report back from the coroner shortly after it happened…he suspected it was some kind of poisoning but he said it would take weeks to get the full tests back, but he couldn't find any of the usual poisons up front. No cyanide, no strychnine…he _did_ mention doing some cross referencing and finding…"

"Severe scarring of the lungs, like was seen with World War I soldiers when they were hit by chlorine gas?" his wife asked anxiously.

Columbo was still half asleep but quickly woke the rest of the way up as it occurred to him what she was talking about, "Yeah…that's what he said, what'd you find?"

She held the latest book she'd been reading open for him and pointed to the page and said, "Mixing bleach with vinegar creates chlorine gas and can be fatal." She passed the book over to him and said, "Two perfectly common household cleaning items that can _never_ be mixed together, it's the perfect murder because…"

Columbo read the passage and finished for her, "If anybody ever figured out _how_ the guy died, it could be passed off as an accident since most people _don't_ know you _can't_ mix the two together. People think cleaner's cleaner and all kinds of cleaner can be mixed together to create a stronger, better cleaner." He started to put the pieces together. "If people breathe it but get into a well ventilated area, and get to a doctor in time, their lungs are burnt but they can survive it. But you put a guy in a locked room with a sink, no windows, put the two liquids together down the drain, get out quick, re-lock the door, the gas sets off, he inhales it, so much of it in so little ventilation and plenty of time, he dies, open all the doors and windows in the house, turn on the fans, rinse out the drain, over 24 hours pass before the body's found and the police are called, who would be the wiser? There wouldn't be any evidence of the poison left. No sign of foul play. No real sign of a struggle. No murder weapon…that's it!" He jumped out of bed and started getting dressed.

"Can you prove it, Frank?" his wife asked, "Can you use this to prove he's guilty?"

"No," he answered, "But now I know _how_ he did it, so _now_, I've just got to figure a way to bring this up into the conversation the next time I talk with him, and that'll get the gears grinding, and he's going to get nervous, and he's going to give himself away somewhere. And in the meantime, I can check the house where the body was found and see if it _does_ have a bleach bottle and a vinegar bottle, and if so, getting them checked for prints and find out whether or not the victims' prints are on them. Because if they're _not_, then that _proves_ somebody did it for him." He went back over to the bed and threw his arms around his wife, "Rosie, you're terrific, and it only took two weeks and 12 books to figure it out."

"Frank!" his wife called to him as he went to the closet to get his raincoat out, "Where're you going?"

"I'm going to load up all of his books that he gave me, and take them back," he told her, "We found what we're looking for, so there's no reason to keep reading the rest of them."

"Frank," Mrs. Columbo picked up the clock off the nightstand, "It's 3 o' clock in the morning, _how_ are you going to explain going to his house and waking him up at this hour?"

"Oh it's very simple," he answered as he sat down on the bed long enough to get his shoes on, "I'll just tell him that I _just_ finished reading all of his books, and I wanted to be sure and get them all back to him as soon as possible before I forgot. Because you know how I am, you know how I have a tendency to forget things, and lose things…"

As if to answer, his wife reached over to the nightstand and handed him his notepad and a brand new, freshly sharpened pencil.

"Thank you," he said as he accepted them and put them in his coat pocket, "You see? I'm always losing things, pencils…pens…matches…if I didn't have you to keep my head on straight, I don't know where I'd be."

"I can just imagine," Mrs. Columbo replied teasingly, watching her husband prance around the room like a chicken with his head cut off.

Columbo went back over to the bed, kissed his wife and told her, "Thanks again, Rose, you don't know how much this has helped me."

"You're welcome, but Frank, please, try _not_ to wake the kids up on your way out this time," she said to him.

"Oh you got it, Rose," Columbo raised his hand in a mock scout's honor gesture, "You got it, I'll be quiet."

"And I'm sure I'll be the next linebacker for the 49ers," Mrs. Columbo said to herself as she lay back down under the covers and listened to her husband's hurried footsteps downstairs and out the door, followed by the sound of his ridiculous car pulling out of the driveway and down the street. A minute passed, and for a change, she didn't hear the kids get up across the hall in response to the noise of Columbo leaving the house.

"I'll be darned," she said to herself.

And now another switch, here he was going to be wide awake for the remainder of the night trying to smoke out this murderer, and _she_ was going to go to sleep.


End file.
